


Asunder, Another

by kanadka



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5947114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanadka/pseuds/kanadka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If only they weren't so alike. And if only Thorin Oakenshield truly cared about nothing but gold, did not so easily win Thranduil's begrudging esteem, and weren't so handsome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asunder, Another

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rekall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rekall/gifts).



> this got away from me, and before I knew it I was 8k into a slow burn enemies to friends to lovers complete with OCs a lot of which was not what the prompt asked for! Here's the concentrated version.

Late night in the mountain. Erebor looms around Thranduil, its high halls imposing. It should feel more foreign than it does. But Thranduil is here more often than he ever thought possible and Erebor has slipped around him like a mantle.

Thorin and he have been at work hard on these trade agreements. Dwarves and elves will never trust each other - it is pointless to pretend otherwise - and so the terms of the agreement are spread over the large table, that all the pages might be easily seen by many eyes. Their previous nine meetings have derailed into pointless argument about semantics over clauses and subsubsections. This one is no different, and Thranduil and Thorin are still awake now, merely because they are the last ones left standing.

It had begun with a simple, single, one-off trade. An open and shut case. The dwarves get what they need, the elves delivered, all finished, they could go about their lives and never see each other again. Is it not simple?

It never used to seem sad to think it: two neighbours dwell beside each other. They never speak. The dwarves of Erebor and the elves of Mirkwood rarely spoke before! Why, then, now? Because they fought a battle together? were unified in war?

No, the only reason Thranduil had managed to come up with is that Thorin is different. Thorin is special. That is hypocritical. But it means Thranduil does not need to accept the misgivings of all dwarves, only of Thorin. That is well.

As steel, tempered. The battle was good for Thorin, and leadership suits him. And yet a forge burns within: he is the same being who confronted Thranduil in chains. How precisely Thorin is different from the other dwarves, he does not know, but Thorin alone is sufficient to make him hesitate over the prospect of cutting off contact with Erebor and never again finding out.

As a general rule, Thranduil does not acknowledge their similarities until he has had too much wine. Alone and inebriated and lonelier than he cared to admit, he had realised: Thorin is much like him, and at times Thranduil's cloak of isolation chafes. So they trade, and on the surface the reason is that Thranduil might receive those gems. For no other reasons, certainly. Why else would he set his goals with the dwarves but for material goods? (Ah, but they are _his_ gems, and they belong to _him_ , and why should he not strive for their return, and - Thranduil has grown to understand the plight of a dwarf like Thorin, driven to madness over a hoard.)

It becomes easier and easier to play trade niceties, and harder and harder to convince himself that isolation was a good idea. Thranduil does not regret turning away. The forest had its own sicknesses. And Thranduil has fought dragons back when there were far more elves to spare upon them. He does not regret turning away from a call to arms from a dwarf like Thrór. But on occasion, doubt strikes. Earlier, he might have thought that a sovereign need it not; but in the august years of his rule, a little doubt is justified. There is no more need for the absolute when he is the last Elvenking. Even Elrond calls himself only lord.

If Legolas only knew how his own protestations have helped influence his father. Legolas sketches a caricature with his words of the dwarves and it serves to help highlight the ridiculousness of the things he says.

The clock in the main hall strikes three.

"This is getting ridiculous," says Thorin.

"Do you wish to adjourn?" asks Thranduil.

"Do you offer it because you're tired?" Thorin throws him a rakish grin.

It should not look as dashing as it does. "No."

"Then no." Thorin sits down, leaning over the table, propping himself up by his elbow, his fist at his jaw, buried in his beard, and returns to poring over the paper.

From what Thranduil can tell, it is Balin Fundin's son who appears to be Thorin's most prized diplomat - and that is true, whatever the trick is to diplomacy, the snow dwarf has it. Balin left last month for a year in the Iron Hills. Before this, he had taken Thranduil aside to speak privately, and asked him to keep an eye on Thorin. This is why Thranduil sits by him and studies him now, in flickers of glances during Thorin's distraction.

 _If anybody can keep an eye on that gold-madness of Thorin's,_ had said Balin, _it's you_. At first Thranduil had been offended. For what reason should Thranduil be the one to catch it first? Because of the gems? Had he inferred the Elvenking too was intoxicated by wealth to the point of irreconciliability? No. Because Thorin, thought Balin, was unlikely to take advice from people he didn't consider equals, and barely took it from Balin himself. Thranduil had been yet more offended. The equal of a dwarf? Never!

Thranduil suspects that whatever work Balin did has been subsumed into Thorin's duties, which also include the general running of the kingdom and meeting with elves and men. Thorin Oakenshield, request assistance? Hah. Thranduil smiles wryly.

For Thorin is so exhausted he has now fallen asleep on his fist, and for the moment, Thranduil does not wake him. The noble and stately King Under the Mountain dozes on, his face relaxed in repose.

Sometimes, between the two of them, Thranduil feels they make better progress. On business matters, they agree more often than not. He has begun to recognise tells in Thorin's behaviour. When Thorin truly feels passionate about a matter; when he is arguing only because he is teasing or wants to pick a fight. He must enjoy teasing Thranduil; he picks fights often.

There is something Thranduil recognises in the weight of Thorin's eyes that he imagines hefting with the same weight as his own - an equivalence that persists. There can be no comparison to make. Thorin's eyes were made years ago, and Thranduil's were made full _ages_ ago. But there it is, recognisable regardless. In the weight of his eyes, Thorin is regal, and he shall be a good king. It is evident. And that is almost worse.

Would that he could have been as corrupt as the others who went before him. Would that he could be as dwarven in his lust for wealth and as avaricious with his hoards. But Thorin has already sat this test, and in the wake of the battle a year ago has passed it. It left him whole. Balin's fears are unfounded. Thorin has the tools to pass it again, and again, and again, and a lesser Dwarf King might fall but Thorin is no lesser Dwarf King.

If he were, Thranduil could bear him the same grudge that he bore Thorin's forefathers. Thranduil could turn away. Alas, he has grown to respect him. It proves Thorin's equality, and Thranduil is lying to himself if he says it does not irritate him.

And there is a thread of something between them, the presence of which Thranduil loathes admitting so much that he does not admit it at all, but it irritates too often to ignore.

(Ah Aulë, why did you make the dwarves so? Why could they not all be simple machines of greed?)

At other times, it feels there is no progress. Thorin in particular has a way of circumventing Thranduil's marvellous wisdom and patience that instead unstays his tongue and drives him to lash out.

Three hours ago, they argued. Thorin had said he wanted no more war, and that he wanted this to work. And that he felt he could not trust Thranduil because he was ever looking down.

At least now Thorin admits it openly.

Thorin too recognises that they are cut from the same cloth, that they are equals. His occasional disdain for Thranduil is deliberate: he disdains because he thinks Thranduil will be disdainful and Thorin hastens to strike the first blow. He knows well Thranduil's hatred for the dwarves.

No wonder they've made no progress. _Thranduil_ has made no progress. It strikes him how young Legolas sounds when talking about the dwarves - ugly, horrific, ill-mannered. Thranduil would have agreed, except it sounded too like Legolas talking about the Noldor in Imladris - they that call the elves of Mirkwood foolhardy and less wise. Foolhardy, less wise? Just young. That must be how the dwarves feel when they say such things about them.

Thranduil should know better than to think like that. But these grudges are hard to erase. Even now at this moment, watching Thorin sleep, the temptation is there to dwell in disgust, wondering how a mere dwarf could possibly be his equal.

It is so easy to cast Thorin aside as different, but similar -

Sometimes Thranduil wonders whether Thorin acts less dwarven, more elven, on purpose. To placate Thranduil. And Thranduil has fallen for it like a trap.

\- the old mistrusts.

There is nothing elven about him. Rather, Thranduil is the one casting his actions in a more elven light. In an attempt to same him, to make him more like Thranduil, to set him apart from his people. But he can be no more set apart from his people than Thranduil could from his.

Where does this leave these two equivalent souls and their fledgling thread?

Thorin's nephew and Tauriel seem to manage it.

But they are not sovereigns.

And yet...

And yet there is Thorin, asleep in the seat next to him, propped up on his fist, his grip around his pen slack. The sight is sweeter than it has any right to be.

Thranduil reaches out to remove the pen from his hands. In the movement, their fingers brush. A spark flies in the touch and Thranduil freezes. Thorin does not react.

He should put the pen down and return to his seat. He should take Thorin to bed. (To _his own_ bed!) He should retire for the night. He should not want this to progress any further. This is inflammable.

Instead Thranduil brushes their hands together, the backs of his knuckles against the backs of Thorin's.

What is he _doing_. This is lunacy.

Thranduil is not alone. He knows it because Thorin does not banter or flirt with the other dwarves. Thorin does not throw them rakish grins. Thorin's eyes do not sparkle when he perceives them after an absence. Thorin is never so brutally honest with them and chooses instead silence over the tact which he lacks. (It is also possible that as Thorin pushes Thranduil into impetuousness, there is some reciprocation.) He knows it because whatever he knows, it is a safe bet that Thorin also knows, because they are not as far apart as Thranduil would like.

He floats the touch up to Thorin's face, ghosting the tips of his fingers on Thorin's skin. (Lunacy!) Thorin's beard is softer than Thranduil had imagined. The hair looked coarse. It was not. Thorin is growing it. With every time they meet it appears longer. Now it is to the middle of his chest, and sports braids and beads. On any other dwarf, Thranduil might find it ridiculous. Not on this one.

He hesitates - oh why not, he has already gone this far - he extends a cool touch to Thorin's neck, stroking his fingertips down the side of it, the muscle beneath his fingers thick and strong. He pushes a lock of Thorin's hair off his shoulder. Cool and smooth, though not as thin as his own. Thick, lustrous, and generous full waves instead of his own sheet curtain of white. Spellbound, Thranduil trails up his neck again, past the jawline, along the line his beard cuts on his cheek, leading to his mouth - by the Valar, his _mouth_ , his lips parted in sleep -

He drops his hand, scandalised, his heart racing, and for a moment sits quietly and thinks.

This is too intimate. Thranduil should not do these things. Even with Thorin's knowledge, he should not do these things. This is a dwarf and not just any dwarf, King Under the Mountain, if any should be quintessentially dwarven it is he, and Thranduil has never in his life been remotely less than elvish and yet the compulsion to touch him is stronger than he can deny.

No. He _could_ deny it. He possesses that ability. He did not _want_ to use it.

Only the simple touch of Thorin's neck has convinced him. He knows that he did not feel this with his wife. He has lied to himself about that for so long and cannot lie any longer. He grew to respect her, yes. But he has grown to respect Thorin too. He touches Thorin in a way he did not put his hands on his once wife.

Perhaps that is why she sailed west.

When he looks up, Thorin is watching him. Thranduil is still. His eyes trail over Thranduil's hair, his ears, his face - his unmistakably elven features - before they settle on his lips.

"We do not sleep quite so easily," says Thorin.

Thranduil has no words with which to explain himself.

Who moves, is it Thorin, or Thranduil? Whichever - perhaps both - they have drawn nearer each other, out of their chairs, and his mouth descends up Thorin's. It is meant to be soft, tender, an expression of the respect that he feels and the emotion that he should not, but hardly a second of the contact of their mouths elapses before a fire is lit and the conflagration consumes him and Thorin is pressed near him, in his embrace, Thorin's neck under his long fingers. Thorin snakes a strong arm around Thranduil's shoulder and the other around his waist, pulling them closer still. Thorin tilts his head and as Thranduil gasps he shifts his tongue inside. Deeper still, their hair intermingled with each breath, Thorin shifts his weight to balance on the table. Thranduil presses him down upon it and puts his hands on dwarven hips -

Thorin pushes Thranduil off, breathing heavily. "We cannot," agrees Thranduil. He looks away. If he looks again at Thorin's swollen mouth, he will be lost.

"I will - I shall have to ask Balin after all," Thorin says. "He has offered -"

"To do what?"

"To find me a consort. I can not - _this_ can not -"

It's true. It cannot be. But, "You cannot do that," says Thranduil. Thorin watches him with a peculiar hope and hunger. "Spare yourself that shame, of watching your consort depart you, feeling the guilt that you don't feel enough sadness at her leaving. Leadership is so often the making of lies, you need not bring them to your bedchambers!"

"In your worldly experience?" Thorin says, haughty.

"Listen to me," hisses Thranduil.

"I'd rather fight for this," Thorin replies, gesturing between them, "than listen to another word of your advice -"

Thranduil kisses him, partially to shut him up, and partially because the draw forward is inexorable. Thorin moans, and grips him by the collar, tugging him forward, sealing them together. The kiss is hot and wet as his hands trail fire down Thorin's chest, Thorin's tongue upon his inside his mouth, Thorin's teeth upon his lips.

"No -" he gasps between kisses, "we should have peace - you were right -"

"What peace can I find," growls Thorin, "when you flood me with this heat."

It is impossible, he lacks the conviction to stop this, he has always found it difficult to keep his temper around Thorin but this is impractical, it is a test of his patience that he utterly fails, his emotions cannot be checked and he stumbles forward into Thorin's body with a low desperate groan. He picks him up to perch him upon the table, and if that suits Thorin ill to be so handled, then he has a strange way of expressing it by tugging Thranduil up until Thorin's thigh fits neatly between his.

Thranduil's people love but once. So do Thorin's. If they are damned then it has happened already, the damage is done. They are far more alike than they are apart and no one, not even the elves, can outpace truth.

In the morning they find that nine pages must be rewritten after an ink pot overturned. Being the last ones there, Thorin and Thranduil are questioned.

"It was I," says Thranduil, "I had reached across the table and knocked it over accidentally." Some are sceptical, but it is no lie.

"The Elvenking should be more careful where he puts his hands," says one of the dwarves.

"Hear, hear," echoes Thorin, and behind the dwarves' backs, he grins.


End file.
